The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 11

With my growing confidence that Brian Pierce was the author of the letters, there were so many things that I needed to do. I wanted to Google Brian, his family, and anything I could learn about his situation. I would need to treat the work like I would research for a piece—follow every lead and rabbit trail to its ultimate conclusion, which could take several days.

But I was also eager to read the letters Brian left since the last one Dad had seen The Internet wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. It would be there waiting for me whenever I needed it. Reading the letters would be a better fit for the time I had remaining today. They were likelier to tell me what led to Brian's demise, the newest piece to the puzzle. I headed back to my place and the collection of odds and ends I'd gathered from Dad's home after he'd passed.

I retrieved Dad's 24-inch fluorescent black light from the box he'd marked "CEMETERY LETTERS". It hummed and flickered a moment after I plugged it in before settling into a steady purplish glow. I had no clue what the PVC framework Dad had made was for, but I grabbed it anyway. He'd included it in that box so I assumed it had something to do with reading those letters.

Since the last letter Dad read referenced a crime, I needed to make working copies of the new batch. I wanted to read them but not disturb any trace evidence still left on the originals. Setting up a production line, I put on some latex gloves and cleared off the kitchen table, laying each page next to the other. The original idea was to darken the dining room, and turn the cell phone camera's flash off. I'd hold the black light in one hand, and take photos with the other. That proved cumbersome, and the focus and size of the results were uneven.

I suddenly realized what Dad designed the PVC framework to do. The homemade stand held the black light perfectly for evenly illuminating the page. But it also allowed the camera room to center and focus on the entire sheet of paper. I set the black light on the parallel tubes. By placing the camera next to the nearest cross-member when I snapped the photo, I could quickly shuffle the pages in and out between the legs of the frame. The process produced perfectly uniform images. Once I'd captured the pages digitally, I shared them to my computer as e-mail attachments. I'd print each one off as needed, making the letters easy to read while sitting crossways in my recliner enjoying a cup of coffee.

The last two letters were the most relevant. I was assuming now that Bubba was Brian. The next-to-last letter described the repercussions that Bubba was experiencing from spray painting the wall and rug of Doc's home. He'd intended to call out the presumed murderers, but things had gone awry.

"The popo aren't doing a damned thing about Doc or his dead wife. I finally called in a tip on my burner, and they still haven't arrested him. Maybe they thought I wasn't serious because I used a voice changer."

I had to empathize with that, at least a little, because of Dad's experiences trying to get the police to listen.

There was a one-week gap in Brian's letters. The one that should have been the next one in the series was missing. I'd have to check with Gary to see if anyone might have turned in another letter since I last saw him.

The next letter I had from Brian reflected increasing paranoia, probably appropriate under the circumstances:

"Doc must have some juice or a lot of money. There's a bunch of faces in the old neighborhood who don't belong, and they're asking a lot of questions. Nobody you or I know. These guys look like hired goons—mostly ex-military, with shaved heads, buzz cuts, and military tattoos. They aren't too bright, and they're not quiet about it. Thugs muscling people around. They kept throwing Bennie against the brick wall outside the strip club until they knocked him out cold. They were demanding he snitch on anyone who mentioned watching a murder or someone hiding a body.

"I don't know how they figured out someone from our neighborhood saw them move the dead woman. Somebody could have spotted my car leaving the block where they killed her, maybe followed me part of the way home, but I don't think so. Maybe they tracked some goods back to my fence—I shouldn't have used my regular guy. He always dumps the stuff that isn't worth much at a pawnshop, where people can see it. I should have thought about that.

"They're flashing badges—the ones I saw looked like they came out of a cereal box. No way they are real cops, undercover or otherwise. They're calling themselves detectives, but the shields they show aren't gold; they're tin. Two goons rented your old place, where you lived when Mikey was born.

"Three turned up at Johnny Rocco's without an invitation and then asked for a menu. If you have any business being in Rocco's, you should know exactly what Johnny serves. Cannoli, pizza, and lasagna, that's the deal. If they don't know you, and especially if they don't like you, you take a pretty good chance you'll have to get your stomach pumped. And unless you're a made man, you don't walk into Rocco's without an appointment. You especially don't ask questions of people you don't know. And threatening people?!?"

That will help pin down the general location where Brian lived—though it wasn't familiar to me, Johnny Rocco's shouldn't be too hard to find:

"No, these weren't locals. They damned sure weren't cops, and they didn't have a clue about the neighborhood. You know half the regulars at Rocco's are 'confidential informants' for legit feds or local cops. They feed information to their handlers to get rid of their competition. The other half are paying off the cops to protect their various activities. And we always know which is which and who is who, and they have some style, like Letti says, 'panache.' These new guys don't know who they are messing with and have no class. If they keep it up, Frankie's crew will have to explain the lay of the land to these clowns. I want to be a fly on the wall when that goes down. The last time something like this happened, they pulled body parts out of the tumble dryers at the laundromat for a week.

"But until they're gone, I'm shut down, can't do anything, can't have a life. You're the only person I've told about the doctor and his people moving that body. But now I can't go out for a joint or a drink with my buddies—I'm afraid I'll let down my guard and say something. It might get back to those asswipes. And now they're asking who specializes in B&Es in the neighborhood. They want to know who got popped for vandalizing houses. I've got one on my sheet from when I was a stupid kid. I did that Helter Skelter thing, spraying serial killer shit on the walls with red paint. Remember? You got so mad at me when I told you I was the one who did it."

Brian's fear and sense of entrapment were palpable and came through in his writing. The loneliness must have been incredibly intense if he had to write all this to his dead sister just to feel heard. Now I, too, shared his apprehension and immediately moved on to his last letter. It was dated three days before the engraving on his headstone said that he died:

"Sis, I have to fix this. The cops aren't checking out anything about the dead woman. They wouldn't believe me if I told them; if I did, I'd go back in for the breaking and entering. I can't go back to prison. This shit has made me too paranoid, and I'm not on my game anymore when I go out. I'm afraid I'll make some idiot mistake and get busted. And I'm not safe in the neighborhood anymore. These mercenary assclowns look like they aren't here to communicate a message; they're here to kill somebody. I need to get these hired goons out of the picture. Dammit, I shouldn't have painted that message on the doctor's wall—live and learn, I guess.

"My only way out is to set things up to put them away for good. Maybe the cops won't do anything about the woman getting killed. But if another body shows up tied to the same people, that should get the attention of the police - especially if it's one of the three that were there that night. Sis, you know I'm no killer, but the stakes are getting too high. If I don't get them first, they'll get me. I can hear you telling me not to, but I'm seriously out of options here."

Awww, Brian, couldn't you have found someone else to tell and get them to talk to the cops? I guess you don't feel you have anyone you can trust not to give you up to the goons. Hindsight's twenty-twenty and all of that, but if you'd just written one of these letters to law enforcement, just maybe...